The Burning Bed - part 2
by Jeff S. Gibbs



It was an old building, desperately in need of a paint job.  The big sign
above the door said:

Old Treasures Antique Shop - Your Gateway to the Past

I entered the gray building and the door tripped some loud chimes that
echoed through the cavernous building littered with dusty furniture,
armoires and nightstands.  An old man, easily in his seventies, came
strolling out of the backroom with a half eaten sandwich in one hand and a
newspaper in the other.  He approached me and laid the paper down on a
nearby dresser, extending that hand to shake mine.
"The name is Phillips, John Phillips.  What can I help you with?" The old
man said.  I pulled out the receipt I took from the house and showed it to
him.
"An older gentleman, late fifties bought this bed a few weeks ago from you.
Do you remember the sale?" I asked.
"Let me see," the old man said as he scratched his stubbly chin with his
fingers.  "It was a four post bed ... in poor condition." He said out loud
as he read the receipt. "Oh yes!  I've only had one poor condition bed go
out in the last few months.  It was the one we got from the house that had
the fire.  In fact, the bed itself took quite a bit of fire damage, but it
was still in solid shape.  The man who bought it said he was going to sand
and refinish it.  Said it would fit his new mattress and box springs just
fine."
"You said the bed came from a house that had a fire," I said, excited to be
on the right track.  
"Yes ... sad story that was," the old man explained. "Appears a woman and
her young child died in a house fire.  The police and fire department guys
around here didn't want to talk much about it, but it appears the mother
went crazy ... probably on drugs or worshipping the devil, or god only knows
what.  But late one night, she took her young son while he was sleeping,
poured gasoline on him and then on her and lit a match.  Their screams woke
up neighbors and they called the fire department.  The station is just a
block down the street, so the fire didn't spread very far past their bodies
before they put it out.  Damn shame, it was."
"Where exactly were they when they burned?" I asked, fearing the answer.
"Right there on that there bed," the old man answered, pointing down at the
receipt.  "They burned right there on that bed.  But, like I said, the fire
didn't spread past their bodies.  It burned the mattress, but left the wood
frame in pretty good shape.  I picked it up a week or so after they cleared
the house.  Just beat the trash men if I remember right."  I just stared at
him in disbelief.
"You took the bed that that woman burned herself and her kid on?  And sold
it?"  I said, still in shock.
"Well, yeah ... no reason to let perfectly good wood go to waste, besides
with a good sanding and a new finish, I'm sure that bed is mighty fine
looking now.  Besides, the new owner of the house is a family friend of
mine.  He's not had any problems with the house and gave me permission to
take the bed away and sell it."
"Did you tell the guy who bought that bed the story behind it?" I asked.
"No, he didn't ask and I certainly wouldn't volunteer to tell such a grisly
tale ... would you?" He answered incredulously.
" No, I guess not." I had to reply.  "What do you think caused that woman to
do something so crazy?" I asked the man.
"Who knows ... like I said before, drugs or something," he answered.
"Firemen said they found all kinds of weird symbols painted on the floor
around the bed and either she was into witchcraft, or was worshipping the
Devil ... or maybe she was just plain nuts."
It was then I drew very close to the old man, looked him square in the eye
and told him that the man that bought the bed from him was dead. "He died of
a freak heart attack.  His daughter found him just a few feet away from that
bed, his face frozen in fear," I explained.  "Not knowing any better, she
put the bed up for sale at the estate sell-off and I was the imbecile who
bought it!"  My voice was now trembling with anger and the old man tried
walking backwards away from me, but I matched each of his steps with one of
mine. "Now that bed is in MY house and I'm having visions of that little boy
and his sadistic mother!  His spirit, his ghost, his ... whatever ... begged
me this morning not to let her burn him again!  Last night, he even grabbed
my arm in fear ... LOOK!" I said as I pulled up my sleeve to reveal five
small, red finger marks on my arm.  I thrust it up just inches from his face
so he could see the marks the apparition had given me.
The old man looked at my arm, then at me, then back to my arm and shook his
head in disbelief.
"I think it's time for you to leave," he said. "I can't help you."
"What's the matter?" I asked. "I figured you wouldn't believe me ... that
you'd think I was crazy ... but you don't, do you?  You believe me.  You
believe me, don't you!?" I said forcibly as he increased his pace in an
attempt to back away from me.  I could tell that he had fear and guilt in
his eyes as he backed away.  I stopped my pursuit and let him retreat.
"Go away, " he said.  "I don't want to hear another word about that bed.
You just go home and get rid of it, throw it away, burn to ash, just get rid
of it!"  With that, he turned and went into some back office and slammed the
door.

I stood there dumbfounded for a moment or two and thought to myself.  "This
guy must have seen something too, while the bed was here in his shop, but
the damn fool was either too stupid or greedy, and he let that poor man buy
it anyway." 
Knowing I wasn't going to get any more out of him, and realizing now what
had to be done, I left the store and got back into my car.  All the way home
I played the old man's story over and over in my head, then I put it
together with what the daughter of the original buyer had told me.  Whether
it was witchcraft, some kind of devilry or just the tragedy of the situation
that had bound those two spirits to that bed, they must be released. That
poor little boy had to relive that terror over and over and over again. The
bed was cursed and it must be destroyed.  I now had a single purpose and I
drove home with reckless abandon, hoping to get there before dark.
While on the road, I called my best friend, the one who had sold me the
house.  I relayed as much of the story as I dare to him, and asked him to
suspend disbelief just long enough to help me move that bed out of the house
so I could get rid of it.  Obviously, he didn't know what to make of my
request, but he was a good friend and promised he'd meet me at my house in
time to help.  Just forty minutes later, I was pulling into my driveway and
he was there waiting for me.
We hardly spoke until we had gotten inside.  I was merely explaining the
route I wanted to take through the house with the pieces, once we
disassembled the bed, when we heard a scratching noise through the ceiling
above our heads.  
"What's that?" Eric said.
"I don't know," I replied as my face washed white with fear.
Obviously noticing my expression, Eric asks what room was above us at the
time.
"My bedroom ...," I answered flatly.  "Where the bed is."
My friend, Eric, just looked up at the ceiling, listening to the weird
scratching noises and looked calmly back at me, gulped with fear and said,
"Let's get this over with."
"I couldn't agree more," I replied and up the stairs we went.
Despite all the strange things running through my head about what could be
causing the noises, I remained calm until the point where my hand was on the
doorknob of my bedroom's door.  As soon as my hand touched the knob, the
noise stopped.  I glanced and Eric and he just nervously looked back at me
and nodded, assuring me he was ready for whatever lay beyond the door.  I
turned the knob and slowly arced the door open to reveal a sight my wildest
imagination could not have prepared me for.
The bed had been pulled ... or pushed ... into the middle of the room and
looked just how it must have after the fire it originally endured.  The
mattress had nearly been burnt though and each of the posts were charred on
the sides facing the inside area of the bed. The awful smell of burnt hair
and flesh wafted lightly through the air. As we stepped into the room, I
noticed strange, white chalk drawings on the floor and walls around the bed.
There were no recognizable symbols, but there were several drawings and
strange looking letters, all written in a diagonal fashion, top to bottom -
left to right.  
Of course Eric looked at me accusingly, as if to ask if I had left it this
way or myself or staged it in any way.  All it took was a look from me to
ensure that certainly wasn't the case.  My face was washed white with fear
just as much as his was!
Eric and I cautiously approached the bed since there appeared to be no
further "activity" going on at the moment.  
"How do you want to do this?" He asked.
"Let's just take it apart and take the pieces out individually," I answered.
With that, we both grabbed hold of separate posts on the bed and began to
search for the best way to take it apart.  I bent down to look under the
bed, searching for the connection pieces that held the frame together.
After releasing the wing nuts and release pins under the frame, I stood back
up to get out from under the bed.  Eric stood on one side of the bed and I
stood on the other.  We both grabbed onto a post at the foot of the bed and
began to pull the rear panel away from the rest of the bed.  We hadn't
backed it away more than an inch when a lump began to form under the
tattered and mostly burnt sheets.  The stench of burnt flesh grew even
stronger causing us to freeze in both disbelief and terror as the lump grew
higher and higher. 
It began to take the form of a human head and shoulders as it lifted above
the burnt mattress.  The holes in the mostly charred sheet exposed nothing
but blackness, even as the lump finished forming into what looked like
slender adult form sitting on its knees.  Eric and I just stared at the
motionless entity under the sheet, fearing to even breath, until I finally
snapped.  I don't know if it was anger, stupidity or just the fact that I
had reached my absolute limit of tolerance with the entire situation, but I
did something rather drastic at that point.
"Get the #### out of my house!" I screamed as I thrust my hand forward to
yank the sheet off the ghostly entity.  It was a move that I will regret
until my dying day.  As my hand touched the sheet, I felt something solid.
Even though the sheet remained firmly attached, I could see long black hair
drifting out of a large hole burnt through the fabric. It was the same hair
worn by the ghastly woman who appeared to me the night before. As I grasped
enough of the sheet to pull it off with my fingers an arm shot out from
under the sheet and it's black, charred hand grasped my forearm with amazing
strength.  A gravelly voice emanated from the sheet, chanting some strange
language that I didn't recognize, almost laughing as it recited the words.
Again, the voice didn't seem singularly human, but more a chorus of many
voices. Tortured, demonic voices.
As I struggled to remove myself from its grasp, it squeezed even harder and
began to grow very hot.  Stunned by the change in temperature, I looked down
at the charred hand and stared in horror as it burst into flame.  I screamed
in pain as the fire burned into my flesh.  Eric, previously frozen in fear,
finally acted upon the situation and flung his entire weight into me,
yanking my arm out of the fiery grasp and causing us to both fall to the
floor.  He stood up first and grabbed a plank from the under support of the
bed that had fallen free in the struggle.  He squared his feet and lifted
the plank behind his head like a baseball bat, and he swung it around with
all his might. Right before he should have made contact, the sheet fell flat
to the bed causing him to strike nothing but air. A sinister giggle echoed
through the room, and he cursed in anger. He proceeded to whack the fallen
sheet with the board a several times, out of spite and rage.
I regained my composure and stood up next to him, clutching my burnt arm in
pain.  Ignoring the pain, a second wave of anger poured over me, and I bent
over and grabbed the bottom side rail of the bed, lifting it with every
ounce of my remaining strength.  When my legs were again straight, I
finished thrusting my arms up over my head, causing the bed to capsize and
completely fall apart.  The mattress and box springs separated and fell
apart, while the side rails and bottom supports clanked to the ground.  The
headboard then completed the melee by falling backwards and striking the
wall a few feet away, leaving scrape marks in the paint as it slid down the
wall.  At this point, I couldn't have cared less about that.
I grabbed one corner of the headboard and Eric followed suit by grabbing the
post and corner on the back.  We quickly carried it out of the bedroom
without even speaking.  We went down the hall and turned through the living
room and out the back patio door.  We continued to drag it away from the
house until we were a good 50-75 yards away in the vast open field behind my
house.  We dumped it there, and then continued this process, without
incident, until all the pieces of the accursed bed were outside in the cool
evening air.  On the last trip from the house I grabbed a can of gasoline
from the garage and carried it out to the pile of wood and fabric that was
once my bed.
Eric just stood and watched as I soaked all the pieces with the fluid.  I
took a step back from the pile and lit a small piece of rail with a lighter.
It quickly ignited and within a few seconds, the entire pile was virtually a
bonfire. I stepped backwards from the heat to stand side-by-side with Eric
as we watched the flames engulf the pile of refuse.  Although the wind was
blowing pretty good that evening, and whistling through the trees, we could
both swear that we heard the cries of a small child coming from the fire.
It was often followed by a somewhat maniacal laugh that would overpower and
drown out the cries.  Eric and I listened intently, and even though we were
still wracked with fear, we stood our ground and made sure no part of that
bed remained once the fire was done with it.  Eventually the unearthly
noises faded as the fired consumed its prey. After an hour or so, nothing
was left, but ash and smoldering coals.
I felt a weight that I hadn't even noticed before lift off of my shoulders,
as well as my heart.  It was like the sun coming out after a week's absence.
As I stood there, watching the ashes smolder, I felt the hair stand up on my
neck and arms and felt a small hand grab mine.  Strangely without fear, I
calmly looked down and saw the small boy who had visited me the night
before.  This time, he looked just how he must have in life.  He was a
handsome boy, with dark hair and bright eyes.  He looked up at me and
smiled, and in turn I smiled back down at him.  He opened his mouth to
speak, but as he did I felt his hand grow lighter in weight and his whole
body seemed to fade into translucency.  Right before he disappeared
completely his lips tried to form words and I heard a whisper in the wind
say, "thank you."


Days passed, then weeks.  Things returned to normal.  The markings on the
floor in my bedroom were strangely absent when I returned that night, but it
took awhile for me to regain the courage to sleep in my bedroom.  It wasn't
until I had bought a brand new bed from a local furniture store that I was
able to complete a sound night's sleep in that room.  I knew that the bed
was gone and the curse with it, but the memories of the events were so vivid
and terrifying that it was still difficult.  I eventually called the woman
whom I met at the estate sale, and even though I was worried she wouldn't
believe me, I told her everything.
I told her the story and how I feared that her father might have fallen prey
to the fear that bed created.  Needless to say she didn't know how to take
it, but she thanked me for doing the research and was certainly glad that I
had burned the bed.  I asked her if she thought I was crazy.  She paused and
said with a flat monotone voice, "No. I believe you. In fact I found some
markings that match what you explained on the floor out in my father's work
shed.  I was thoroughly confused by them and thought some kids must have
broken in and put them there after he died, but I was never sure."  She
lightened up a bit and continued, "I wish he could have realized what he was
getting himself into, or that his heart could have taken the stress.  I
still miss him terribly."  
With that she thanked me and I gave her my number and offered to answer any
further questions she might have.  We hung up and I have never heard from
her since.  
My life now is perfect.  I have met someone new and am considering getting
remarried; the bed is an ancient memory - a nightmare from the past that I
have finally moved past.  Although the bed is destroyed, whatever force that
created that evil or worked its will through that bed is still out there,
waiting for a chance to resurface.  For that, I always take a second look
around before I turn out the lights at night and I ALWAYS check the sheets
before I get into bed.




Jeff Gibbs 
Olathe, KS